Chapter 2

Myrt suggested a path via the lowlands surrounding the lake. Aremys grunted his agreement, still struggling to dampen his revulsion for the horse beneath him. Myrt did not linger for a comment from the barshi and set the direction. Once the horses were moving at a steady canter, Aremys felt better, and when they set them at a gallop, the exhilaration and the wind in his face alleviated some of the sickening taint permeating his body from below.

For the first half of the ride the men said nothing and Aremys was happy to be lost in his thoughts and the pure pleasure of being out in the breathtaking valley. The lake was mirror calm and he marveled at how it reflected the lower rises of Razors. The cacophony of the waterbirds drowned any potential for conversation, which suited him perfectly. Although the sun was high overhead, there was no real fire in it, and the riders were glad to feel its gentle spring warmth upon their shoulders, loosening winter’s firm grip on the land.

Now that Aremys had been touching the stallion for some time, he was able to control his reaction to the horse. Whatever had initially caused him to gag wretchedly in front of the King had diminished to a constant queasiness, which he was mastering. His revulsion had given way to an intense pity for the animal. The beast moved beneath him with superb grace, all muscle and power, eager to respond to his rider’s urgings, but Aremys sensed something beyond the physical, something he would almost equate with human emotion.

“We can stop over there and rest the horses.” Myrt butted into his thoughts, pointing toward a cluster of rocky outcrops that formed a loose semicircle and a natural sun trap.

Aremys nodded. He would have preferred to keep going but was helpless, certain that this entire afternoon was all being carefully orchestrated.

They settled themselves against the boulders while the horses grazed contentedly on some tender grass, far enough away that Aremys could converse without the magical stench threatening to upset him. Still, he felt Galapek’s pull. The more confident Aremys became in his resistance to the revulsion, the more strongly the horse pleaded to his senses. What did it want him to do? What was this creature that it could generate such loathing as well as sympathy?

A new thought struck Aremys: not what was this animal but who? The notion was so striking that it washed away his fear. Who was this animal? Who was calling to him using the magic of the Thicket? Could the beast be under an enchantment, like Wyl— a man trapped in another guise?

The thought revolted him.

As he shook his head clear of such a shocking notion, the barshi embarked upon the expected interrogation.

“The King tells me you have lost your memory,” Rashlyn said, without any preamble.

“I have,” Aremys answered. “It is a terrible feeling not to know anything about oneself.”

“I gather it is returning gradually?” the man replied, reaching to unwrap the hunk of cheese and hard biscuit Myrt had packed.

Aremys noted the man’s grubby fingers and looked away. The Mountain Men were tough and capable of living rough, but he knew they bathed regularly. The King led by example: He was always scrupulously clean. As it had struck Elspyth not so long ago, Aremys had realized that the people of the Razors were a sophisticated race with great artistic and creative skills as well as a love of the land and a deep respect for one another. Since Cailech had stopped the tribal fighting and drawn the people together, that respect had extended beyond simple courtesies to living alongside one another in a manner that promoted cleanliness and protected them from disease. Aremys had noted with surprise the special ablution blocks that were built around the fortress, proof of how highly Cailech rated the importance of proper sanitation.

The King was convinced of a link between human waste and disease, and so it was rare to see any Mountain Dweller squat in the fields or in a corner of the fortress to relieve himself Instead, carts rolled away from the many ablution blocks daily to deliver the waste into pits dug deep in the ground, far from the main living areas, where it would harmlessly break down and return to the earth. It was part of the modern thinking—along with education and the maintenance of the old languages—that Cailech was beginning to impress upon his people. But this man, Rashlyn, with his dirty hands, his unkempt appearance and offensive manner, did not fit the Mountain folk’s mold. How did they tolerate him?

Rashlyn was staring at him. “Yes, slowly,” Aremys answered finally. “I know my name, at least, and where I hail from.”

“Would you like me to check your skull for any damage? I am a healer,” Rashlyn offered, along with some of the cheese.

Aremys could not risk that the sorcerer might sense through his touch the Thicket’s trace of magic. And Shar alone knew where those filthy fingers had last been. “Thank you, no,” he replied. “I’m not hungry and my head is fine.”

The man frowned. “It must have been a firm blow to knock your senses so. You really should let me examine you.”

“No need,” Aremys replied briskly, glancing toward his quiet companion, hoping to be rescued. “Myrt here has already looked me over. There is no sign of any damage.” Myrt did not deny Aremys’s claim but did not support it either. Aremys suspected that he too was fighting a battle of loyalty. It was fairly obvious from his body language alone that the warrior despised Rashlyn.

“This business of your lost memory is odd, then,” Rashlyn said. He spoke through his food and bits of the cheese crumbled and fell from his mouth into his tangle of a beard. Again Aremys looked away, disgusted. “How could a blow strong enough to cause you to lose your wits be entirely healed?”

“I have no idea,” Aremys said, shrugging. He found the barshi’s probing stare most unsettling; there was madness lurking there, he was sure of it. He stood and said politely, “Excuse me whilst I take a drink,” glancing again at Myrt, this time for permission to sip from the stream.

Myrt nodded and Aremys walked as casually as he could to the stream’s edge and bent down. He splashed freezing water over his face, enjoying the refreshing trickle of droplets that found a way into the front of his shirt and slid down his chest. As he straightened, flicking water in all directions, he sensed someone directly behind him. The thrill of fear that passed through him nearly unbalanced him into the stream. He turned abruptly, expecting to see Rashlyn reaching toward him, sinister and threatening.

Yes, Rashlyn was standing behind him, but instead of reaching out for the mercenary, he was digging in his pockets. Aremys felt stupid. He was definitely becoming paranoid, he berated himself silently and angrily.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said, a little slyly, Aremys thought. He retrieved a tiny jar from a pocket. “Here—this will ease the headaches I believe you have been suffering.”

“What is it?”

“A soothing blend of herbs for rest with a dash of laudanum. It won’t harm you, or dull anything but the pain, I promise. Sip it every hour as you need.”

Aremys was trapped. Rashlyn’s filthy hand was extended toward him with the small bottle in its palm. He had to take it, or risk throwing yet more suspicion on himself. If the King was waiting to hear that Aremys had vomited again or had refused to ride his stallion, then he would be disappointed, but this moment might yet be his undoing. Aremys saw the healer’s eyes narrow at his reluctance but still he hesitated.

“I can easily make up some more; you’re not denying anyone by taking it,” Rashlyn assured, the softness in his voice almost threatening. Aremys was sure the man was daring him to refuse.

He took a moment to shake his head free of the water droplets, then paused to wipe a sleeve across his face. “Thank you,” he replied, reaching out slowly, hoping Rashlyn would simply drop the phial into his hand.

Before that could happen, Galapek alarmed all three men by rearing up behind them, screaming loudly as though in pain. Myrt reacted first, running toward the horse. Aremys took his chance, moving swiftly away from the healer. “Let me help!” he called.

The horse clearly wanted Myrt nowhere near him, rearing and screaming even more wildly as the warrior approached. To Myrt’s surprise, however, the stallion calmed a little at the sound of the big mercenary’s voice and allowed Aremys to sidle up to him.

Aremys reached for the reins and called again to the horse. “Galapek, there, boy. There, now. Settle, big fellow,” he whispered. The horse stilled now, trembling and frightened.

“Poor Galapek, whatever has happened to you, I shall rescue you, I promise,” Aremys said, stroking the animal’s broad, magnificent face. “Be calm now, boy.” He rubbed the stallion’s neck, and for the first time, the stench of the magic did not turn his stomach. Whatever this curse upon the stallion was, it was somehow communicating with him, flowing through him and around him, begging him to keep his promise.

And then a word came into in his head. It was faint and desperately called but he sensed it clearly.

Elspyth, he heard, just once, and then it was gone, like a sigh given to the wind and borne away.

Aremys was so shocked he stood rigid against the horse’s neck, trying without success to recapture the word. Elspyth. Surely that was the name he had heard? Myrt’s urgent voice broke through his haze of confusion.

“Farrow! For Haldor’s sake, man!”

Aremys turned, surprised by the anger in the man’s voice. Then he saw Myrt’s expression—not angry, but distraught—and followed his friend’s pointing finger. By the water’s edge, where he had left him, Rashlyn writhed on the ground, shouting gibberish as spittle foamed and flew from his mouth. His arms and legs flailed wildly, then, suddenly, fell completely still.

“Check that the horses are secure,” Aremys called over his shoulder as he ran to the prone figure. He hoped Rashlyn might be dead, but luck was not with him. He lifted the small man’s chin to ensure a clear breathing passage, but stopped short of breathing any life-giving air into the barshi’s mouth. “He has a pulse, I’m sorry to say,” he risked to Myrt, who had come up behind them.

Myrt did not smile but something akin to a twitch of amusement flitted across his face. “What’s happened?” the Mountain man queried.

“Is he prone to fits?”

“I don’t know. I’ve not heard of any occurring before.”

“Could it be the cheese?” Aremys asked.

“No, it’s fresh. Nothing wrong with it.”

“Something else, then. It seemed to occur at the same time as Galapek took fright.”

“What are you saying?” Myrt squatted, saw the indecision in his companion’s face. “Speak freely—I have protected you before.”

Rashlyn lay rigidly still at their feet. Aremys lifted back the man’s lids. The dark, madness-filled eyes had rolled back into his head. The man was unconscious; he could hear nothing.

“I’m not sure I should air my views. You’re a loyal Mountain warrior, after all.”

“Not to him!” Myrt spat disdainfully on the ground. “Like you, I wish he was dead. He’s a danger to all of us.”

“Because of his magic?”

Myrt nodded reluctantly. “He uses it for evil, I’m sure of it.”

“I think it’s his magic that has prompted this episode.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either, entirely.” Aremys sighed and decided to take a chance on Myrt. He hoped his instincts would serve him truly. “Were you given any instructions about me and this afternoon’s ride?” Myrt frowned. “Nothing special. I was briefed to give you a chance to enjoy Galapek because you had expressed such interest in the horse.”

“The King didn’t tell you to keep a special eye on me?”

“My job is to keep an eye on you, Farrow. You’re our…”—he hesitated—“our guest, after all.” Aremys grinned ruefully. “Myrt, you are more friend to me than most people I have met over the past decade. But let’s be honest here: I’m a prisoner. I have to accept that. However,” he went on, scratching his head, “your king is entrusting me with a very serious task, which means he has faith in me. Sadly, I can’t be quite as honest with him as I can with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I suspect he is in the thrall of this man. You’ve told me as much yourself, and spending just an afternoon with Rashlyn has convinced me he’s not someone to trust.” Myrt said nothing, merely frowned again.

Aremys pushed on. He glanced toward the horse. “I could be aiming completely off target here, but I think there’s something very odd about Galapek. No, not odd. Enchanted.” Myrt rocked back on his heels as if slapped. “Magic?”

Aremys nodded. “Worked by Rashlyn, I’m guessing. And known of by your king.” There, it was said.

Myrt stood and began pacing. He said nothing for a while and Aremys kept the silence, watching Rashlyn for any signs of consciousness.

“I don’t believe this,” the warrior hissed eventually, pointing at Aremys.

“You don’t have to,” the mercenary replied calmly, having anticipated the anger. “I’m just offering my own thoughts. I’m not suggesting that your king—whom I like and respect—is in complete agreement with Rashlyn.”

“Then what do you mean, mercenary?” Myrt asked brusquely.

Aremys was sorry that he had pushed his friend so far. It was obvious from his anger that Myrt had suspected something not so far from what Aremys had suggested. But the blood of the Mountain People ran thick with loyalty. Wyl had warned him as much and he should not have presumed that friendship might override that loyalty—although, of course, it had in the case of the man Lothryn, who had chosen love and friendship over his monarch.

“I’m sorry if I’ve given insult, Myrt. It was not intended, especially not to you. I meant that I think Cailech—under the spell of Rashlyn, as you have pointed out—has permitted something unnatural to be wrought upon this horse.”

“And how for the love of Haldor’s arse would you know, Grenadyne? Are you a practitioner yourself, now, who knows when magic is being wielded?”

The harsh words bit at Aremys, as intended, but he could not ignore the truth. Could he risk divulging it to Myrt?

“Myrt, do you trust me?”

The man passed a weary hand over his eyes. “I’m not sure.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

“That you are reliable.”

“Good. That is enough for me. Now, we have to get Rashlyn back to the fortress. Help me lay him across his horse and I will tell you everything I know as we travel.” They took the same route home, although more slowly. Aremys had tethered Rashlyn’s horse on a lead some distance behind them, so if the healer regained consciousness he would not be able to hear their conversation and would have to alert them by calling out. “An old mercenary trick,” Aremys had said, winking.

On the return journey, Aremys began to share with his friend all the information he was prepared to risk bringing into the open. He cast a silent prayer to Shar that he had this man’s measure, that he could trust him not to betray him. He said nothing of Wyl, of course, simply explaining that he had been in the employ of the Morgravian sovereign. Myrt accepted that the mercenary would not explain what specific task he was employed to do for Celimus, merely nodding when Aremys assured him that it was nothing connected with the people of the Razors.

“Let me simply say that I was tracking someone of interest to the Crown,” Aremys offered.

“And that’s what brought you so far north?”

“Yes. I’ve remembered that I came to a place called Timpkenny in the far north east of Briavel,” the mercenary lied. “I believed the person I was following had passed through there.”

“And these people who set upon you—just common bandits, you think?”

“Mmm.” Aremys nodded. “Added a little something to my ale to make me feel sick so I would stagger outside the inn late at night. I’m guessing now—all of this is a little hazy, thanks to the drug—but they must have thrown me over a horse to remove me from prying eyes. They led me to the fringe of a region called the Thicket. Have you heard of it?” Aremys held his breath.

Myrt was staring at him intently. He nodded. “They say it has powerful magic.”

“It does, my friend, or at least I think it does. The bandits left me there after robbing me. Something must have frightened them, because I expected to be beaten, at the very least.” Aremys steered himself toward the truth. “The last thing I remember is a strange noise coming from the Thicket itself.” Myrt’s eyes were huge. “A creature?”

“No creature I know makes that sound. No, I can still hear it—it was a sort of humming sound—and then the air became thick and oppressive,” Aremys replied.

“Then what?”

Aremys made a gesture of apology. “Then nothing. I woke up to the sound of your men’s voices and no memory of what had occurred or who I was. You know the rest. My memory came back gradually over the next couple of days, and it’s still returning slowly.” He shrugged, then added for effect, “I can even remember the faces of my family now.”

Myrt, stunned, shook his head. Finally he spoke. “I believe you, Aremys. No one could make up such a tale, and we know of the Thicket’s legend. It’s just a shock to hear that its magical reputation is more than myth.”

“For me too, Myrt. But I’ve been over it and over it and the only explanation I have is that the Thicket, or something inside it, had something to do with me appearing at a location in the Razors it would take days to reach by normal means. You checked the area; there were no signs of other people or animals, so I couldn’t have been kept drugged and led in by horse.”

“I believe you,” the big warrior repeated, his hands raised in defense.

“Well, I don’t want to put any strange ideas in your head, but my only explanation is that this place called the Thicket is enchanted—I too have heard the old tales—and it did not like my being there, let me tell you. I felt its animosity. I think it got rid of me.”

“That’s impossible, man!” Myrt said, desperate to cling to something rational.

“I agree, but there’s no other explanation. You understand now why I had to keep this part of my story to myself? Obviously I couldn’t tell that tale to the King. He would have laughed first and had my throat slit a moment later. As to how the Thicket rid itself of me—it repelled me. I can’t think of any other way to describe it. It would be great to believe a nice family of tinkers found me, picked me up, and carried me with them on their journey through the Razors, but I think you’d agree we’d only be making up an explanation to help ourselves feel better about a notion we don’t want to accept or understand. No, Myrt, I am convinced that magic has been wielded upon me. I have other reasons to suspect as much as well.”

Here it was, the very core of his tale. Myrt would either give himself over entirely to Aremys now or brand him a madman and go running to Cailech. Aremys took a deep breath and waited for Myrt’s inevitable question. He risked a glance behind. Rashlyn lay draped over his horse, still unconscious.

“What do you mean by that?”

The fortress was all but upon them now. Aremys could see the people working the orchards, driving carts and going about their chores. He shivered, noticing for the first time that a chill had descended into the valley and a slight breeze had picked up, sending ripples across the surface of the formerly mirrorlike lake. The disturbance matched his own mood.

“Aremys, what did you mean?” Myrt repeated.

Aremys reined Galapek to a halt and the other horses followed suit. He knew Myrt could tell this was difficult for him and was giving him time to find the right words. There were no right words, though—so he just told it as he saw it.

“I think I’ve been touched by the magic of the Thicket. It temporarily knocked out my memory with the force of its power, but it gave me something in return.”

Myrt drew back warily and opened his mouth, then closed it again. Aremys hurried on. “It left me with the ability to sense magic.” He held up his hand. “Before you jump in—no, I can’t wield it. I just sense it.

And magic is with us now.”

“Where?” his companion whispered.

“Right here, beneath me.”

Myrt looked toward the ground.

“Galapek,” Aremys said. “This horse is not natural, Myrt. It is riddled with magic, bad magic. It’s tainted—it smells evil and repulses me as effectively as the Thicket transported me all those leagues. This horse reeks of enchantment and I think Rashlyn is responsible for it.”

“That’s why you were so keen to avoid his touch,” Myrt finished, tying together the threads of all he had noticed but had not been able to understand.

“That’s right. That’s why I disgraced myself on our first ride together when Cailech rode Galapek. The magic assaulted me and I had no control over my reaction to it. I didn’t even know why I was behaving so strangely. It took me a while to work it out, but I know I’m right.”

“And now?”

“The magic still revolts me, but I have it under control now.” The warrior whistled through his teeth. “So that’s why you seemed nervous riding out this afternoon.” Aremys nodded. “I was terrified. I had no idea how I’d handle it, but I knew that Rashlyn had been sent to watch my reaction and so I had to be very careful.”

“So you’re saying the King sent him?”

“Of course. Cailech’s too smart to allow my behavior on that first ride to go unnoticed. He’s testing me.”

“He speaks well of you, Aremys, you should know that,” Myrt defended.

“Thank you. I’ve grasped as much, and yet I know he is suspicious of me—understandably so, because if he’s got something to hide with this enchantment, anything that threatens it is a danger.”

“You’re risking much by telling me this.”

Aremys nodded gravely. “My life is in your hands, Myrt. I trust you, and Shar knows, I had to tell someone. I was about to go mad.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Just keep my secret for now.”

“I cannot be party to anything disloyal to Cailech,” the man said carefully.

“I wouldn’t ask it of you. I just want to learn more about the horse—and Rashlyn, whom I wouldn’t trust if he were the last man alive in this land.”

“None of us would, except the King,” Myrt replied, disgust lacing his tone. “And you think the horse’s rearing and shrieking and Rashlyn’s collapse are connected?”

“Yes. Something has tampered with their magic or disturbed the link between the two. I’ll admit to something else…”

“Yes?”

“I felt it too, but only lightly. As Rashlyn was holding that medicine out to me, I became light-headed, slightly dizzy. I thought it was the fear of him touching me, but I think I know better now. The magic of the Thicket was resonating again…perhaps warning me. Or maybe something has happened, something connected with the Thicket that has also disturbed the horse. I don’t understand what, or how. Maybe the Thicket can disrupt the actual enchantment on Galapek—why else would Rashlyn also react? They must be connected.”

“But you don’t know how?”

“No! It’s frustrating!” Aremys frowned. “But I intend to learn more. Will you keep my secret?” Myrt nodded unhappily. “I will keep it.”

“Thank you. I won’t betray you or your people—you have my word.” Aremys banged his fist on his chest in an oath only another northerner would understand.

Myrt mirrored the movement and then the two men banged fists together in the traditional northern oath of loyalty.

After they had ridden on some time in silence, Aremys decided to push his luck with the Mountain Man.

“Now that you know my secret, perhaps you would share with me whatever it was that you held back earlier about your great friend Lothryn?”

Myrt looked taken aback and uncomfortable. “It was nothing of importance.” Aremys shrugged. “It seemed to me that you were troubled by the mention of his name. I thought you might want to share your burden with someone who would not judge you for it—an outsider you can trust.”

Myrt glanced back at the barshi’s unconscious figure, then looked around surreptitiously, his expression uncertain. Come on, tell me, Aremys urged silently. He knew if ever there was a moment to learn about Wyl’s savior, it was now, while Myrt was in a fragile state of mind and the bond Aremys had built between them was new and strong.

“Lothryn…” Myrt spoke the name as if in veneration. “Brave Lothryn was brought back to the fortress after the Morgravians escaped—well, all but one.”

Aremys bit back the question that leapt to his throat. He must not disturb the man’s flow of speech.

There would be time to learn about Gueryn le Gant later.

“Koreldy and the woman, Elspyth, managed to get away—because of Lothryn’s aid and the fact that we were facing several zerkons. Lothryn and I fought back to back together on Haldor’s Pass, a dangerous escarpment. We killed three zerkons that day and lost several men. When the battle was over my great friend turned to me and held his wrists out to be bound. He didn’t ask for mercy or even a quick death—both of which I had expected, and might even have given him. I loved him enough to give my own life for him, and I knew Cailech would execute me if I showed such mercy. But Lothryn knew Cailech would have instructed me to bring him back to face his ruler. He allowed me to keep my faith with my king.”

It was Aremys’s turn to whisper. “What happened?”

Myrt’s expression became distraught. His voice shaking with tightly held-back tears, he continued. “I delivered him to Cailech. It was a private meeting and I was not permitted to be present. I have no idea what passed between them. Later, all the King would tell me was that Lothryn was undergoing a special punishment and we would not see him again. I asked whether he was to be killed and I’ll never forget the King’s reply.

“He said, ‘He probably wishes I would kill him.’ I saw a mixture of pain and regret in his face, Aremys.

The King loved Lothryn like a brother, and his betrayal cut deeper than any other wound ever could.” Aremys sighed. “And there’s been no sign of Lothryn since?” Myrt shook his head, deeply upset. “We’ve tried. I know Rashlyn knows something, but he’s as mad as a pit of burning snakes. He makes little sense at the best of times.” As if on cue, they heard a sound behind them, a weak cry from the man slung across the trailing horse.

“He’s stirring. We’ve tarried long enough. We shall speak again when we next get a chance alone,” Aremys said and, as Myrt dropped back to check on Rashlyn, he clicked Galapek on toward the mammoth arch that swallowed them into the great stone fortress.